


Boone's Mighty Manmeat!

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Companions, Crack, Dancing, Dirty Talk, Fallout Kink Meme, Kink Meme, M/M, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1519610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Mighty Manflesh Monday at the Gomorrah, and Cass doesn't plan on missing out on the fun! She drags most of the companions along, but where's Boone?</p><p>Warning: First chapter is pure crack. Second chapter is pure smut. Pick your poison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s Monday in New Vegas, and Cass knows exactly what that means.

“Heeeeey, boys and girls of the Lucky 38, this is a _lucky_ , lucky day indeed, and you know why?” the freckled redhead croons, catching a bewildered Arcade by the sleeves of his white coat and spinning him into a low dip. She bestows a chaste kiss on his cheek as he awkwardly squirms.

Finally, he stops because he realizes she may very well drop him—drop him on his precious, precious skull, possibly jellifying his even more precious brain-matter—and resigns himself to giving the desired response. “Very well. I have no other option, so I may as well ask: why?”

“It’s _Mon_ -day!” Cass chuckles, pulling Arcade upright.

Veronica pokes her head out from her room, her hood falling back past her ears as she can’t help butting in. “So? It’s Monday once a week. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that it’s _Mighty Manflesh Monday_ at the Gomorrah!” Cass spins wildly, arms outstretched as she pulls Veronica into a passionate embrace, kissing her full on the lips with a wet smack.

Dazed and confused, Veronica feels her cheeks heat as she attempts to resist the whiskey-breathed woman’s sassy charm. “But Cass, I don’t _like_ men,” she protests weakly. Her pulse is pounding in her ears as she remains in place, dangling scant inches from Cass’ entirely kissable lips. Dammit, why did Cass have to get so frisky whenever she was drinking? Why did Cass have to be so handsy all the time? Veronica doesn’t need a crystal ball to predict another furtive masturbatory session in the bathroom.

“So while the mighty manflesh is shakin’ its way across the stage, then _you_ can eyeball all the lovely Vegas ladies who are throwin’ their caps and their bras onstage.” Cass’ grin is more infectious than post-apocalyptic herpes, and makes Veronica twice as itchy. “We should all go on and make it an evening out! With Six and Lily gone scrounging forsaken hellholes, we gotta do _something_ to keep up morale! You too, old bones!” The last is said to Raul, who has made the mistake of lingering by the workbench a touch too long after hearing Cass thunder through the suite.

“But _mija_ , I do not enjoy the shaking gyrations of the men either,” the ghoul attempts to say, but Cass interrupts him by enthusiastically pounding his back.

“Fuck that! It’s all of us out tonight! Plus I hear they got some special tequila, and drinks are half-price from five ‘til seven.” She waggles her eyebrows at him, crooking her finger enticingly. “C’mon old man.”

With this combination of wheedling, threats of bodily harm, and general ebullience, Cass succeeds in extorting everyone’s agreement to go to Mighty Manflesh Monday. Courier Six and Lily are absent on their adventures, and Boone is nowhere to be found. Still, Cass reckons they can all go out for a good time.

* * *

 

Gomorrah’s main showroom is packed wall to wall with ladies and gentlemen, the atmosphere almost unpleasantly warm and stifling with the fevered pitch of everyone’s excitement. Cass only chuckles gleefully, using sharp elbows and good-natured cussing to work their party up to the bar. Arcade, not trusting the Gomorrah’s hygiene standards, asks for a bottled soda. Raul orders tequila, while Veronica cheerily requests something sweet and fruity. The bartender (himself a piece of mighty manmeat wearing a fetching sparkling G-string) only bats his eyes, deadpanning, “Honey, my boyfriend’s taken.”

Arcade nearly chokes on his Sunset Sarsaparilla.

“Ooh, you walked right into that one!” Cass crows, slapping Veronica on the back as the brunette blushes. “How about a whiskey for me, and a pink fruity thing for the pink girl?”

“Got it. One French tickler; girl looks like she can use one,” the bartender chuckles, reaching for bottles and expertly pouring dashes of sweet brown liquor in an oversized shaker. Mixing, pouring, then sending it spinning out with a practiced flick of the wrist, he finishes his impromptu performance with a shallow half-bow.

Veronica claps with delight as Cass accepts her whiskey with aplomb.

“Now that everyone is liquored up, let’s make for the manmeat!” she exclaims, smacking her lips.

And just in time; the lights dim as a tinny drumroll begins, then crescendos to a thunderous overture as a voice crackles to life over the loudspeakers. “ _Welcome! To…. MIGHTY MANMEAT MONDAY!”_

The pounding music threatens to give Arcade a headache, but no one else appears similarly afflicted. Instead, they are cheering even more raucously than before as a dark-skinned man whose skin gleams as if oiled dashes onstage. His costume consists of a top hat, a tie—and little else. His tight black shorts cradle a generous package, and he blows a kiss to the entire front row as he spins, dances, and raises a loud whoop.

“Now our next performer is _fiendishly_ handsome, and sure to get your motor running—so let’s all welcome _Mo’ To Run Her_!” the man wearing the top hat bellows.

Another man, dark complected and with a thin moustache and beard, runs on stage. He pumps his fist overhead, hollering loudly and causing his elaborate skull headdress to wobble side to side. Arcade ends up spitting out his drink, aerosolizing the ladies in front of them. They don’t seem to notice, instead screaming in wild abandon.

Veronica leans over, whispering “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe they’re _doing this!_ ” Even knowing it’s not really Motor Runner, the sheer _brazenness_ of having a stripper impersonate a Fiend boss…

“But save some of that love for…. _You know who, it’s…. JIMMY HSU!_ ”

And further brazenness steps to the forefront as a smooth-skinned  man wearing black booty shorts shakes his way to the foreground. His green cap is the only clue as to his supposed ‘rank’ in this army of manflesh, but it’s more than sufficient to elicit delighted whistles and pained groans alike from the audience.

“And don’t forget the foxiest man in the Mojave, who happens to be very fond of well-hung individuals… Fantastic Mr Fox!”

It takes Arcade a moment to decipher the strange code name, but the dog’s head hat is the give-away. Raul just gives a low groan, muttering that he can’t believe the audacity. Even Veronica appears somewhat taken back, but Cass only laughs more loudly.

“Fuck yeah! Let’s get more men in red skirts!” she whoops as ‘Fantastic Mr Fox’ twirls in place, his red kilt flaring up to display muscular buttocks. Caps shower the stage with rain-like tinkling sound as Mo’ To Run Her, Jimmy Hsu, and Fantastic Mr Fox continue their pelvic gyrations. Even Veronica is caught in rapt wonder, eyes wide as saucers as she admires the sheer athleticism of the varying performers.

“But now, for our star attraction…” the announcer bellows, drum roll swelling in the background, “I would like to welcome a certain _especially_ fine piece of manmeat, a hot-blooded, cold sniper… _Greg Boone!_ ”

While everyone erupts in cheers, Arcade’s jaw goes slack. Raul’s brow is raised—or possibly not, it’s always a bit difficult to tell with ghouls. But Veronica is similarly flabbergasted.

“Craig Boone?” the brunette whispers, the sound nearly lost in the crowd.

Cass sniggers, patting her on the back. “Nah, _Greg_ Boone. Just like that ain’t really Colonel Hsu or Motor Runner or… Brahmin shit, is that…?” Even the foul-mouthed redhead is at a loss for words as a burly figure wearing shades stalks on stage. His form is massive, bright lights gleaming over valleys of flesh and muscle, casting shines and shadows over the slope of his shoulders and chest.

“ _Dios mio_ , I do think it’s our Boone,” Raul whispers, tequila splashing over the lip of his glass as his grip wavers.

Wearing shades, a red beret, and a surly expression, the newest dancer stomps his way beside his fellow performers. What his movements lack in grace, they make up with a certain awkward, hyper-masculine charm. Despite Boone’s clear discomfort, his mighty physique and stoic silence earn an even louder wave of adulation from the surrounding audience. Bras and panties go flying on stage, along with more caps; the shower of clothing and currency litters the floor so thoroughly that the announcer has to step quite nimbly in order to avoid getting mired.

Waving a hand, Cass hollers, “Hey, Boone! Over here!” When the familiar sniper fails to turn, she places her fingers against her lips and lets out a shrill whistle. Boone turns to face them—either because he somehow caught that above the general cacophony, or through sheer serendipity—and visibly blanches. His shades slip to the side, hitting the floor. At least the layer of discarded underwear keeps them from breaking.

“Yeah, shake it! Shake it baby!” the redhead cackles, the roses on her cheeks in full bloom. She sends a fistful of caps his way, though he has stopped dancing, instead transfixed in horror. The announcer pats his shoulder, attempting to chivvy him along, but Boone won’t be chivvied. His eyes are wide and his jaw slack as his gaze darts from Raul to Veronica to Cass to Arcade, then back again, failing to find sanctuary in any of their gazes.

Finally, one last attempt to get his attention—a slap on the ass from the announcer—gets Boone moving again, though his dancing is mechanical and he carefully does not turn his gaze back to the companions. They spend the rest of the performance in stunned silence (aside from Cass, who loudly requests more whiskey).

After the show, they attempt to gain entry to the dressing room.

“Hey, we _know_ that man! We’re friends!” Cass protests, but the bouncer (another fine piece of manmeat, though wearing considerably more than the dancers) just shakes his head in boredom.

“Lady, if I believed every fan who tried saying that—“

“They are.” The familiar terse tones cut through the bouncer’s speech, and Boone shuffles awkwardly. He is fully clothed this time, and crosses his arms defensively. “Done for the night. Heading home.”

“Fine then, Mr Boone. Just remember next Monday,” the bouncer says with a faint frown.

They make it approximately five feet from the casino before Cassidy bursts out the question that’s on everyone’s mind.

“Boone, why the hell were you up on stage? You look damn good, but—“

Boone does not even bother to make eye contact, though even if he had, the gesture would be lost beneath his (recovered) dark glasses. “Caps.”

“You looking for a raise? If you talk with the Boss, I bet—“ the old ghoul begins, but Boone just shakes his head irritatedly, like a bighorner shaking away a fly.

“Lost a couple rounds of cards. Gotta make up the debt.”

Veronica chews her lip anxiously, chiming in. “Just how much do you need, Boone?”

“Minus tonight’s take…” His voice trails off, and he gives an awkward shrug.

“ _Mijo_ , how much do you owe?” Raul probes.

Even under the shades, Boone’s embarrassment is easy to read by the flush on his cheeks. “Not important.”

Arcade frowns. “Look, we are trying to help you,” he chides, trying not to entertain thoughts about Boone’s mighty manmeat. That will be between him and his hand tonight.

Boone mumbles something. Veronica cups her hand to her ear, prompting him to speak up. “Ten caps.”

Raul and Veronica simply gape in shock, while Arcade and Cass find themselves in an impromptu race to fish inside their pockets.

The old ghoul mutters, “You so broke you can’t afford ten caps? What, you _like_ dancing up there?”

Boone’s flush only deepens, and Arcade beats Cass in the race. “Got it!” the blonde doctor snaps, pressing the caps into Boone’s limp hand. “Now we’re going _straight back_ and paying off the remainder.”

Cass curses her luck, her caps jangling loosely in her palm. Watching Boone and Arcade beeline back to the casino, she shrugs fatalistically and sighs. “Ah well. So much for my chance to have my own dancing Boone for the low, low price of ten caps.”

* * *

 

Later that night, Arcade decides those were the best ten caps he ever spent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone's a terrible dancer, but Arcade doesn't mind. (Warning: absolutely filthy.)

Arcade and Boone quietly walk back through the doors of the Lucky 38, the sniper trailing a few steps behind the blonde doctor. Pressing his thumb to the elevator button, Arcade bites his tongue to avoid filling the awkward silence with inane chatter. Long practice deflecting personal questions has made him adroit in the art of using vast quantities of words to convey very little, but that verbal sleight of hand only works with people who are quite chatty themselves.

Unfortunately, Boone is not one of them.

“Thanks.”

Arcade blinks, brows furrowing together in surprise. Boone spoke? That most stoic and mighty of men?

He did. The shades shield most of his expression, but the broad-shouldered man rolls his shoulders slightly, a gesture so small that it might pass unnoticed in someone else. For Boone, this is positively twitchy.

“You’re welcome. Though you are remarkably underselling yourself. I mean, ten caps?” Arcade chuckles, drumming his fingers against the wall and carefully not meeting Boone’s eyes. “If I knew I would be purchasing my very own dancing ex-soldier, I’d have thought I’d be paying at least two hundred. I mean, isn’t that the going rate for Jimmy? Not that I have ever purchased his services, but I only hear good things.” He feels his cheeks flushing as soon as he mentions Jimmy, belatedly realizing it was too much, too revealing. Possibly. The Followers tend to be more open-minded about such things, but an NCR soldier who had been previously _married_ , probably straight…

Boone’s back is ramrod stiff, hands carefully crossed behind him in some sort of vaguely military parade position. Quietly, the younger man states, “You could have had me for free.”

Wheels grind slowly to a halt, the bell chiming for Arcade just as the elevator doors open. Rather than step into the conveyance, Arcade swallows. Then thinks about Boone swallowing. Then thinks about how wrong it is for him to be thinking that.

Shit. At the end of the day, it’s just a schoolboy crush, but only because Arcade had carefully cultivated his distance to prevent it from going further.

“I thought you were straight?” he says weakly.

Boone actually removes his glasses, his eyes shining in the dim light. “Why does everybody say that?” he mutters. His lips twitch just slightly before turning up in an awkward smile. Still gleaming with sweat, he looks young and oddly vulnerable.

“I don’t know.” The elevator doors slowly close again, but both men remain outside on the ground floor of the long-empty casino. “Why do you want me?”

“You’re smart. Got nice hands too,” Boone rasps, hooking his glasses into the front of his shirt and reaching out to touch Arcade’s wrists. Gently, he runs a callused thumb over the fine lines on Arcade’s palm, his dark tan in startling contrast to the pale cream of the doctor’s skin. “But mostly, you don’t give me shit about the stupid shit I do.”

 _Nonjudgmental approach. Patient confidentiality and the Hippocratic oath_ …

Various bits of medical jargon and half-remembered codes of ethics rattle through his brain, but evaporate like water in the Mojave sun as Arcade raises his other hand to cup the line of Boone’s chin. He feels warm and slightly sticky, sweat and grease mingling on his skin for a glossy coat.

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” Terse as ever, but his breath catches slightly as Arcade traces the edge of his jaw. Arcade flicks his gaze down, spotting the tell-tale bulge in Boone’s pants.

“You liked dancing on that stage.” It’s not even a question now, but a statement of fact. Boone flushes, but keeps his eyes locked with Arcade’s as he gives the briefest of nods.

“Are you an exhibitionist, or do you enjoy being told what to do?” Arcade asks gently, feeling his heartbeat rise in his throat even as he struggles to remain calm. This is a simple diagnostic, after all.

Boone’s gaze does not waver. “Yes.”

“Would you like to have sex down here? Right now?” Even though Arcade is certain what the answer will be, he is still gratified by Boone’s immediate and vehement _“Yes.”_

Their lips meet, an almost-clash of teeth as Arcade presses forward while Boone rises, just a little too eagerly, into the kiss. Wincing, Arcade grips Boone under the chin and tilts his face away. “Slowly, Boone. How about I take the lead, then?” It’s been longer than Arcade cares to think about, but his experience still overshadows Boone’s enthusiasm. Not that enthusiasm is without charms of its own…

Boone tastes faintly of stale smoke and grease, and his skin still gleams in the light of the casino floor. Pressing him to the cool metal of the elevator, Arcade shifts his grip, keeping one long-fingered hand lightly wrapped about Boone’s throat.

“You like this, don’t you? Knowing that if anyone comes back down from the suite, or if the Courier comes back…” he murmurs, voice low and feeling Boone’s pulse race like cazador wings. Boone’s pained grunt of affirmation is just the cherry on top, his physical response already confirming his interest. His eyes are hungry, needy, but trusting—nervous, yes, but the anxiety is part of that erotic cocktail. Arcade feels as if he can get drunk off Boone’s excitement, nuzzling a path from lips to ear and setting his teeth into the fleshy lobe.

Carefully, he starts biting. Not a quick nip, but a carefully controlled test of Boone’s endurance. The initial touch of teeth on flesh is whisper-light, but slowly increases in pressure, bone dimpling skin and then pressing harder, as if forcing his incisors to meet through the tender earlobe. Boone holds up admirably, first silent, almost as if paralyzed, then biting his own lip to keep from crying out as Arcade ups the intensity. Arcade does not actually break skin, or even come close, but maintains a steady bite-force as he runs his other hand up Boone’s shirt. He is still faintly oily to the touch, but that only accentuates the lines of his torso, hard muscle and just the beginning of softness over the belly. Guarding Novac and then tailing after the Courier may not offer the same physical challenges as military service, but Arcade does not mind the effects. Boone’s a hard man, but a little bit of softness is always appreciated.

Caught with Arcade’s hand on his throat and the other stroking his torso, Boone finally emits a low groan. Arcade chuckles through his teeth, hot breath caressing Boone’s ear as he finally releases his jaw.

“Normally, I’d like to strip you myself, but all that dancing… have you ever performed a strip tease?”

Boone starts shaking his head, but feels Arcade’s grip on his throat tighten. Swallowing (and this too is almost painful, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Arcade’s cool hand), he rasps, “No.”

“Then this would be a good time to start. Dance for me.” Arcade pulls his hands away, crossing his arms in front of him with a knowing smirk. Turning away, it takes only a few steps of his long legs to cross the casino floor to one of the dusty stools sitting in front of a slot machine. The white and yellow lights of the machine cast an almost angelic glow to the doctor’s pale skin, serving in sharp contrast to the wicked delight of his smile.

Boone shifts awkwardly, and quietly states, “There is no music.”

“Do I care?” Arcade’s tone is cold, the acerbic bite bringing back heated memories of hard-assed drill instructors as Boone shakes his head. Still beet-red, it is almost a wonder he has enough blood to rush to his face while his cock is so stiff and engorged.

Beginning a clumsy back and forth shuffle, Boone removes his beret. He holds it in front of him like a weak chastity belt, covering the swell of his groin before Arcade gives an impatient sigh and a meaningful flick of his finger. Boone immediately tosses the red cap aside.

Still feeling clumsy as a brahmin, Boone attempts a shoulder-shimmy, much like he had seen ‘Jimmy Hsu’ perform. But where the dancer had poise and control, Boone only has muscles and physique to compensate for his lack of true skill.

Arcade chuckles, using one hand to block his blossoming smile. “God, you’re terrible.”

“I know,” Boone mutters, and he’d be rigid with humiliation if his cock weren’t already rigid on his behalf. Sweat collects on the back of his neck, shame and his guilty desire to please mingling and channeling directly to his groin.

“Take the rest off. You might be terrible, but you’re _my_ terrible dancer.” Turned away, Boone cannot see the smile on Arcade’s lips, but his tone is both possessive and playful.

Boone needs no extra commands, peeling his shirt off and tossing it aside. His hands fumble at his belt next, metal and leather sliding and twisting through the loops of his pants before that too hits the floor.

“Don’t forget to shake your ass,” Arcade smirks, leaning back in a deliberately relaxed pose. “That was quite enchanting onstage.”

Swiveling his hips, Boone turns so that his gyrating buttocks face Arcade. The pants slowly slip down, revealing grey boxers and pale skin as he bends forward. Arcade reaches out to stroke one finger along the curve of his ass, prompting a guttural “You don’t get to touch the dancers, Arcade.”

“I’ll touch whatever I want, soldier-boy. Get naked.” The doctor’s voice rings with authority, causing a curl of heat to squirm its way through Boone’s belly as he drops his underwear. Naked and shivering under Arcade’s regard, he continues shaking his hips side to side. His ass is cream-pale, like the disk on top of a bottle of fresh milk. Even Arcade’s pink hands look honey-tan as he lays his palm flat against Boone’s skin.

“Why don’t you come here? Put yourself over my knee.” Soft as his voice is, Arcade’s tone brooks no argument.

Not that Boone was planning to offer one. He bends over Arcade’s lap, ass in the air and hands dangling so his fingers brush the floor. It is an awkward position, but he can feel Arcade’s erection press against his belly. A faint smile creaks across his face, and he allows himself to feel soothed as Arcade’s hands run over his ass, cool and soft and kneading the flesh with a firm grip.

But then the first crack of pain comes, Arcade’s palm striking meat with all the force of a wrathful god. Boone cries out, breath hissing past his teeth as the slap burns through his ass with too much heat to be called a mere ‘sting.’ Lanky as the doctor may be, he still doles pain with the same precise measurements he applies to dosing medications. Each spank lands on fresh skin, creating a frieze of red handprints across the blank canvas of Boone’s buttocks. Groaning resolutely, Boone squeezes his eyes shut as he wallows in the sensation, pain and shame mingling to make his dick hard as a rock.

“Filthy soldier-boy,” Arcade murmurs, his slow words interrupted with each staccato strike of his palm on Boone’s ass. “You like being bent over and told what to do? Out here in the middle of the casino, where anyone could walk in or come down that elevator?” More spanks, the blows growing heavier as Arcade warms to the subject. The heat of each strike is starting to mingle, blurring the boundaries between each and the next as tears form in Boone’s eyes. “Or better yet, you could get on your knees in some filthy Freeside alley and suck my cock.  How does that sound?”

Boone tries to speak, to say something in his defense—but then another harsh blow lands, and the words become a strangled moan as Arcade squeezes his buttocks, one cheek under each hand as he pries them apart, exposing the dark star of his asshole to the cool air.

“Or I could fuck you in the ass, soldier-boy. Would that be more agreeable?” Arcade asks, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Spanking Boone, vigorous as it has been, doesn’t _really_ count as exercise, but this opportunity and this moment has been the centerpiece of so many wet dreams and furtive masturbatory sessions that it feels vaguely unreal. Only the little imperfections of this scene keep him grounded in the fact that this is reality, sweet and strange; the heaviness of Boone over his legs, making his lap start to go just a bit numb. The faint itch of his glasses sliding down the edge of his nose, uncomfortable but easily ignored in favor of Boone’s far more appealing charms. “Tell me what you want.”

“You. In me,” Boone whispers hoarsely, moaning softly as Arcade massages the warm flush of his crimson ass. Then that changes to a pained gasp, bitten back as his teeth seize his lip in an effort not to cry out. He tastes blood on the back of his tongue as Arcade murmurs, “Where’s your manners, soldier-boy?”

Boone grunts, “ _Please_ ,” voice full of longing and harsh want.

“On your knees, then,” Arcade orders, his tone almost bored despite the faint tremor in his hands as he rises to his feet. Boone is forced to catch himself against the ground to avoid an ungainly tumble from Arcade’s lap. The doctor unfastens his pants, his cock pushing out to meet Boone’s hungry gaze. The sniper presses his cheek against the fold of Arcade’s shirt, the fine fabric rustling against his stubble as he presses his lips to the base of Arcade’s shaft. He starts licking, using a broad, flat stroke of his tongue to trace a line of saliva from base to tip before enveloping the swell of Arcade’s cock in his mouth. His cheeks are puffed out with effort, and he is too inexperienced to grasp the base of Arcade’s erection to make his blowjob easier, but as Arcade thought earlier, enthusiasm can trump skill.

Boone bobs his head back and forth, groaning low in the back of his throat and placing his hands on Arcade’s hips. Impulsively, Arcade thrusts forward, feeling the sensitive glans brush against the edge of Boone’s throat and triggering a brief choking sound.

“Pity about that gag reflex. I’d love to fuck your throat,” he mutters, gripping Boone’s ears in lieu of hair to grasp. His thumbs brush over the bristle-sharp edges of the man’s buzz cut, digging into the side of his skull and using his ears as handles while he fucks his mouth. Boone breathes raggedly through his nose, sloppy moans and spit trickling past the edges of his lips. Furtively, one hand goes lower to stroke his own erection, which is throbbing with an almost painful need for stimulation.

Arcade gives a soft ‘tut tut,’ pulling his cock out of Boone’s mouth and slapping his cheek with it. A smear of spit mixed with precum is left on the sniper’s face, cheeks red with both exertion and shame.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Boone mumbles, “No, sir,” unable to meet Arcade’s gaze.

“On your feet, soldier-boy. Bend over the chair here, and use both arms to hold yourself up. You’re going to need it.”

It takes Boone a few shaky moments to regain his feet, knees red and chafed while his buttocks still sing with heated pain. He slowly bends over, savoring the sensation of cool air on warm cheeks as he grips the edge of the chair. Slowly wriggling his toes into the Lucky 38’s lush carpet, he quietly awaits whatever Arcade feels fit to give him.

Arcade grips his ass firmly, an aching touch that simultaneously soothes and inflames the stinging aftermath of Boone’s freshly-spanked bottom. Prying Boone’s cheeks apart, he again exposes the thin line of his crack and the pucker of his ass. Boone feels hot breath against his hole a scant second before Arcade’s wet tongue laps against him. Moist and surprisingly gentle, Boone can’t keep from releasing a slow moan as Arcade continues rimming him. The tongue on his ass feels fantastic, long licks running along the edge of his anus. He feels himself relaxing, asshole dilating. He hears Arcade spit, then a warm glob of saliva hits against his sphincter. Arcade works a slender finger in, carefully probing past the tight muscular ring and inside his rectum. It’s just novelty at first, the strange and welcome feeling of being penetrated, but then the doctor crooks his finger _just so_ and Boone bucks his hips back, groaning, “Fuck…”

“Like having your prostate massaged, soldier-boy?” Arcade asks, giving his ass a gentle pat. It is comforting but strangely condescending, the contrasting feelings too tightly intertwined for Boone to bother separating.

“Yes, sir.”

Arcade grins, though Boone cannot see it, and thrusts another finger in to join the first. Working both digits into Boone’s ass, he leans forward again, dipping his head to lap at Boone’s balls. He tickles the short curls about the testicles, then lightly brushes his lips over them. Sucking gently, he takes a portion of skin into his mouth, applying wet heat and friction, using just the slightest scrape of his teeth to elicit a gasp from his new plaything.

“I’m going to fuck your ass,” he says finally, pulling his fingers out of Boone and pressing his thighs against Boone’s backside. His erection fits in the crack of Boone’s ass, tauntingly rubbing against the increasingly frustrated sniper.  At least the thin layer of grease still coating his body works in their favor. “Would I be correct in assuming you have never had anything up there before?”

Boone grunts “Yessir.”

“This might be uncomfortable, but should not be painful. If this hurts, let me know,” Arcade breathes in his ear, catching the outer curve between his teeth as he slowly presses the head of his cock to Boone’s tight hole. Boone bucks his hips back, trying to urge Arcade to enter more quickly, but the doctor makes his entry carefully, languorously, allowing only the first few inches of himself into Boone and rocking back and forth. Boone moans, volume rising in frenzy before Arcade presses a thumb to his lips. “Quiet, Boone. Silence is golden.”

It takes effort to restrain himself, biting his lip so he tastes the copper-sweet tang once more at the edge of his mouth. But it’s worth it as Arcade rewards him with more cock, stretching Boone’s ass and filling him until Arcade’s hips meet the lower curve of his buttocks.

“How is that?” murmurs Arcade, warm breath tickling his cheek.

“Good. Real good,” he mumbles in response, tilting his head so his cheek catches against the faint stubble on the other man’s jaw. It’s wet friction and flesh on flesh, bodies moving in synchrony as they grunt their way to relief. Arcade reaches one hand down to stroke Boone’s cock, briskly rubbing him with a fist until he feels Boone twitch, then reaches down to catch the splatter of semen on his other hand.

Whispering, “So much for First Recon’s endurance,” Arcade raises his cum-spattered palm to Boone’s lips. Boone dips his head to lap at it, licking the salty musk of his own jizz. He continues with his tongue, thoroughly cleaning the lines of Arcade’s hands and nudging in the dips and valleys of his fingers. Arcade squeezes his hand over Boone’s mouth, digging the soft flesh of Boone’s cheek into the man’s own teeth as he gives one last hard thrust. The hot rush of his own come fills Boone’s ass, the man groaning beneath him as Arcade pants for breath. The doctor brushes his lips to the back of Boone’s neck in a motion too brief to be a kiss, and then straightens up, withdrawing. When Boone starts to rise, Arcade gives the man’s ass an irritated swat. “Stay down. I want to watch it dribble down your thighs.”

Shivering under Arcade’s regard and still foggy from orgasm, Boone remains obediently in place. The sticky load in his ass dribbles out slowly, and he feels it almost bubble obscenely from his still-gaping hole as it trickles down his thighs. Hot and viscous, it tickles as it runs down. His mouth still tastes of his own sweet-sour climax, laced with the salt and bitter of Arcade’s skin.

Finally, he swallows, asking the question that’s weighing on his mind.

“When can we do this again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's notes here.](http://cchipbiscuit.livejournal.com/5721.html)


End file.
